


Can't Stop, Addicted to the Shindig

by LadyVisenya



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Kirk doesn't join Starfleet, M/M, Stuff happens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-21
Updated: 2017-04-21
Packaged: 2018-10-22 02:44:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10688175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyVisenya/pseuds/LadyVisenya
Summary: Jim doesn't join Starfleet. Stuff happens. Somehow still ends up with Bones.





	Can't Stop, Addicted to the Shindig

_“Cause I looked up your file while you were drooling on the floor. Your aptitude tests are off the charts. So what is it? You like being the only genius level repeat offender in the Midwest?”_

_“Maybe I love it.”_

_“Look,” Pike starts, “so your Dad dies. You can settle for a less than ordinary life, or do you feel like you were meant for something better? Something special? Enlist in Starfleet.”_

_It’s the same thing Jim has heard a hundred times over every times he went up to the principles office, overtime his mother pulled some strings to get him out of court scott free._

_“Sure man,” Jim says, clapping Pike on the shoulder, “Thanks for the talk.”_

Here’s the thing, Jim has thought about Starfleet. It was all he could think about growing up, but not for the reasons he imagines his dad to have join. His thoughts were more along the lines of his mother’s, it was a way out. A reason not to be in fucking Iowa of all places. 

He’d gotten as far as the aptitude tests. Passed, breath still reeking of last nights alcohol and who ever he’d spent the night with. And then, he’d skipped the shuttle to San Fransisco. 

Jim was a lot of things, but he wasn’t that much of a cliche. 

He didn’t need to live up to a man he never knew, no matter what everyone kept telling him. Just because he had _potential_ , everyone expected him to do something with it. Like he owed it to the world. 

No thanks. 

Fuck that. 

Jim was happy with a drink and a fight, or a fuck. Either way really. 

* * *

He wakes up in jail. 

“Hey Dick,” he calls out. It’s Sunday morning. It’s Richard’s shift. “You wanna let me out buddy. Got a whole lot of paperwork to sign.”

Dick rolls his eyes, but opens the cell out anyway. 

“Your gonna ruin your liver if you don’t get yourself killed first.”

Jim shrugs, pops a mint in, and starts signing. He’s glad he remembered to change his emergency contact, the last thing he needs is his mother screaming at him this early in the morning. 

“Anything-“ the words die on Dick’s lips. 

The usual reality show rerun is interrupted by a newsflash. Vulcan is gone. Destroyed. Images of the planet collapsing in on itself are played. “Survivor estimates are low.” 

Footage of ships wreaked, floating in space. Debris  resembling an astroid field. 

Jim stumbles, swallowing hard. 

That could have been him, dead. 

His mother always told him how lucky he was to be alive, when she could bother to talk about it. Add it to the list of things the remaining Kirks didn’t talk about. The subjects Jim had learned were off limits if he didn’t want his mom to spend hours locked in the bathroom. Her eyes red and puffy when she finally came out, her lips twitched into what might have been a smile. 

Maybe he isn’t as self destructive as he thought. Maybe he has a better self-preservation instinct instead. 

Jim leaves the station and takes the first shuttle out of the midwest. Doesn’t care about the destination. Not even a bag on his back. 

* * *

 

Earth is saved, and everyone else is plastered for once. The drinking and partying and celebration hasn’t stopped since yesterday. 

The streets are filled with crying and yelling and people who just narrowly missed being annihilated by Nero, a Romulan extremist. Everything but the bars and restaurants are close. Families are hugging, kids lifted on their shoulders, as they greet every asshole on the street they would have walked right by a week ago. 

Jim pushes through the crowds, the alcohol not quiet doing it for him today. 

Every station plays clips of Captain Pike and his crew. It's projected onto every available surface. Hero's of the Federation. Video after video of Vulcan being destroyed all over again. Nero apprehended. The Federation's Starfleet drifting in space, a graveyard next to a genocide.

And Jim can’t help but bitterly smile.

Seems like he keeps owing his life to Starfleet. 

When he downs his drink, it feels like glass scraping against his neck. 

He falls into doing odd jobs here and there. Nothing good. Mostly the beginnings of a career criminal. He’s a little late to the game, having wasted a few years getting drunk and fighting rednecks and hillbillys in Iowa. 

But he takes to it like breathing. 

Jim finds that for the first time in his life, he isn’t just floating by, finding things that make he feel alive. Like a real functioning person instead of a zombie. 

He stops getting into bar fights.

Jim lies to his mom on the phone, nothing new. 

“Yeah I’m good.” _True._

“Yeah, I’m staying out of trouble.” _Lie._

“Love you too.” _Always._

* * *

He climbs the criminal underbelly fast. Going from odd jobs and playing lookout to lowlife criminals who are in and out of prison like it's a motel to smuggling boxes full of restricted material, things Starfleet frowns heavily upon, to anywhere there's someone willing to pay for it.

Where there's limited availability there's money in it and that means black market business. 

Jim steals peaks and more, who cares that he's not supposed to, never flying without knowing what he’s carrying, keeping a few bottles of banned brandy and delivers on schedule. Mostly.

Uncle Victor sets up the jobs. No one and everyone's uncle. He's every slimy corner drunk Jim has ever known distilled into a craigslist for criminals. There's nothing he won't do, turn a blind eye for, if there was there right amount of money involved. Uncle Victor, no morals no bar too low to sink to. 

But it's better than dealing with assholes face to face.

And that’s where the problems always are. 

“Hey, you said-“

“Your late.”

“Come on man,” Jim says, smiling like it ever helped him, “Starfleet was crawling all over the place.”

“Lies,” the woman spits, “there aren’t enough Starfleet to patrol anymore.”

“Unlucky,” Jim tries, tensing, waiting for the shoe to drop.

The punch isn’t a surprise. 

Jim has learned through trial and error that he can’t fight any better than he could in grade school, so he turns around and runs. 

He charges into the crowd and slows down, disappearing into the sward of people. 

It’s why he always meets in public. Easier to get away clean. Jim's always been a shit fighter. But he can run. He can run damn fast. Just give him and out and he's gone. All those drag races out in cornfields finally coming in handy. 

He didn’t get paid, but he kept a far amount of the cargo so it’s fine. They’re even. 

* * *

His next job brings some questions up from where he’d shoved them. Jim’s cargo is two Vulcans. Slaves. They’re kind have always been few. but now they’re rare. And that means expensive and money on the black market. 

He’s always been careful to stay away from the less savory parts of the trade. But he isn’t stupid. If he says no, they’ll kill him and leave him for dead and find another asshole to smuggle them. 

So Jim grins, “Sure, why not.”

“The money’s good kind,” Uncle Victor growls, “Don’t mess this up for us kid.”

Like Jim isn’t the one taking all the risks. 

“But no more after this,” Jim states, refusing to look at the Vulcans.

Don’t name them Jim, Winona used to say, makes it harder to kill them. 

That had been when they still kept chickens. That had been before his step father, Uncle Frank, when George and him still got along. Before Jim discovered the thrill of adrenaline and diving headfirst into everything that made his blood pump.

“Of course not,” Uncle Victor states, embracing him, reeking of oil and every seedy bar Jim has ever set foot in. 

Jim sighs, and leads the Vulcans onto the ship. He locks them in the cargo bay, careful not to touch them. Telepaths, he mutters under his breath. 

“Fucking asshole,” he hissed, blaming his fist against the wall. Blood runs down his knuckles. Jim cusses. Now is not the time to reevaluate his poor life choices. 

But they stare at him, wide dark eyes. 

And Jesus Christ how is he this bad at being a criminal after all his repeat offenses? It's not any different than other cargo. Not really. But Jim is all heart. 

Vulcans are famous for their lack of emotions, repressed even more than Jim’s. But he swears they both wear the parental look of disappointment better than Winona’s sad and kind face ever could.

And Jesus Christ how is he this bad at being a criminal after all his repeat offenses? It's not any different than other cargo. Not really. But Jim is all heart. 

“No,” he starts. “They’ll kill me.” 

But he already knows what to do. 

He’s self destructive that way.

* * *

They catch up to him in a bar on some space station.

"Hey guys," he starts, "What brings you this way."

"You're fucked Kirk," the large woman spits. 

There’s two star fleet officers drinking at a table and yet Jim refuses to admit he’s fucked. They're close enough to hear him. Jim lets himself be dragged out back. The crush his arms, he stumbles to keep up with them.

The waste no time in slamming him against the wall, taking turns to punch him. Jim doesn't last long before he's on the floor. 

And they slam their feet into his chest. The air leaves his lungs and he hasn't even managed to catch his breath before they do it again. Jim loses his sense of direction, the world spinning. It's not enough that the artificial gravity here was off. 

His face is smashed against the pristine ground. Blood in his mouth. Jim never bothered to learn to fight. His mother managed to teach him how to throw a punch, but Jim was always all emotion. Throwing himself into the fray without a thought. He could never wrap his brain around fighting intelligently. It was the last thing on his mind as the blood rushed to brain and he threw himself at someone. 

Jim regrets never bothering to learn right about now. 

They continue to kick him and his arms do nothing to lessen the blows. He barely manages to curl into himself, body screaming at him with every movement. 

His ribs give way after a couple minutes. 

There’s too much blood in his mouth. His vision splattered with black spots. He’s been in enough fights to know that his ribs are more than bruised. The blood in his mouth pools and he spits it out. 

It's so red. Made brighter and uglier on the sliver floor.

Jim's tense, waiting for the next hit. Not wanting to move. Not wanting to make it worse. Not wanting to give them any satisfaction. His breath is heavy and hot and every exhale comes with blood from his lips. 

It takes him a moment to realize they’ve left. 

And then Jim tries to get up and shrug it off like he so often does, but his body is on fire. Every breath seizes against his chest, sharp and the pain is overwhelming. He can't think about anything. His body is on fire. Every inhale sharp and burning and he can’t-

When it occurs for him to shout, his vision goes dark. 

* * *

“Kid can you hear me.”

“Hey kid.”

“Oh thank the lord. You really had me scared for a second there. Come into space to die of internal bleeding from a fight. At least it wasn’t some ship malfunction. Quicker. But ain’t natural.” 

Jim comes to. The man hovering above he is in Starfleet blue, but he barely cares because the man is handsome. A ruggedness to his features. Cocksucking lips. 

Jim tries to grin, ready to give his best pick up line, but winces in pain instead. 

“Easy kid.”

“Jim,” he manages.

“I know, kid, I know.” 

He pauses, checking his vitals again, “Found you half dead outside a bar. Then to top it all off, first thing I give you sends you into anaphylactic shock. The counter to that gave you hives. Jesus Mary and Joseph.”

Jim smiles as much a he can. 

“Leonard McCoy.”

“What brings an angel like you so far from heaven?”

Leo groans.


End file.
